


Thanks for the Rainbow (But It Tastes Like Gunpowder)

by blueskyscribe



Series: Reflections in a Goldfish Bowl [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Evil autobots, Gen, Good decepticons, Mirrorverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueskyscribe/pseuds/blueskyscribe
Summary: Chromedome was already reluctant to help Brainstorm with his new invention and that was BEFORE he bought two dozen datasticks at a street fair!  Can they complete this project without ticking off Ultra Magnus?  (No, no they cannot.)
Relationships: Chromedome/Prowl (slight)
Series: Reflections in a Goldfish Bowl [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781395
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

Chromedome didn't want to be here, standing in some crummy market stall. A thick, unpleasant _wetness_ hung in the air, threatening to clog his vents, and the damp smacking sounds the native lifeforms made when they spoke reminded Chromedome of exactly why the Autobot army looked down on organics.

At least most of them did. Chromedome had deleted all non-Cybertronian language files to free up more memory space, but Brainstorm's vocalizer produced squelches and splurts with sickening accuracy as he bartered with a blue-skinned alien with a long snout and too much tongue.

Eventually Brainstorm shook his head and swiveled away, striding out into the crowd with such speed that it took Chromedome a minute to process and follow, dodging aliens.

"Over here!" Brainstorm called, waving a hand above the crowd. As though Chromedome could miss him—a bright, almost neon orange flyer with an equally lurid blue faceplate and that ridiculous briefcase dangling from his wrist. Chromedome's paint job was more subtle, pastel hues of orange, green, and pink, but mecha-sapients were rare enough on this planet that he received his share of interested or cautious looks.

Not that he cared what some squishy aliens thought. Mostly he was peeved with himself for letting Brainstorm talk him into this excursion. 'It will be fun!' Brainstorm had said. 'A chance to get off the ship!' Brainstorm had said. Had he mentioned anything about Chromedome trailing after Brainstorm, carrying the hyperactive scientist's many, varied purchases? No. Yet here he was.

Ignoring the aliens who scrambled out of his path, Chromedome stomped over to Brainstorm. He hoped the MTO, who also wore a facemask, could read the tension in his shoulders, the hostility in his optics as he stared accusingly past the gadgets and gizmos stacked in his arms.

"Finally," Brainstorm said cheerfully, examining a large red crystal before dumping it in Chromedome's arms, followed by a purple one. They were heavier than they looked.

Brainstorm threw a handful of shanix on the table and was on the move again before the alien had even finished scooping up the money.

Following his zigzagging path, Chromedome staggered into a faded red tent. The organic shopkeep stood to the side, her three-fingered hands gripped together in an attitude that suggested both servitude and anxiety as Brainstorm shook something that looked a little like an old fashioned clock—if a clock had three faces—next to his audial. He dumped it on the table when he noticed Chromedome had caught up with him.

"I think we're going to find it here!" he announced, gesturing to the assortment of gears, wires, and (mostly broken) components scattered over the thick purple rugs covering the tables.

"Find what?" Chromedome asked. He wished this alien specialized in chairs instead of tech. "What's your big idea this time?"

"A gun!"

"But you've invented five of those already."

"Seven actually. But this one's going to be special. Because this one's going to be . . ." He drew himself up dramatically, flinging an arm skyward. "The nuclear empirical rifle!"

He held the pose, waiting.

Chromedome, hating himself, finally gave in. "What's the nuclear empirical rifle?"

"Ah ha ha, wouldn't _you_ like to know!"

As Brainstorm ducked down to rummage in a bin beneath the cloth-covered table, Chromedome stared balefully at the back of his head. He was glad he knew the name of the stupid invention, it would make it that much easier to trace and delete every thought of it from Brainstorm's mind later.

The scientist must have finally sensed his ire because he popped his head up. "What's the matter, you'd rather be back on the ship with your lover boy?"

"Prowl's not my . . . that."

"Oh yeah? 'Cause I think _he_ thinks he is."

"Just finish buying your fragging junk so I can get back to—" Get back to what? "Just hurry up."

"Yeah, yeah, hold your hydrolium-horses . . . Now what have we here?" Brainstorm pulled up a box that rattled in his grip. "Dataslugs!"

Sure enough, a variety of colorful datasticks were sliding around in the box, along with a thin silver disc.

"So what?" Chromedome said. "We've got plenty of data storage on the ship. Those are probably loaded with viruses."

"Au contraire, we don't have anything like these." Brainstorm waggled a red datastick in front of Chromedome's face. A thin sliver of its casing had cracked off, revealing impossibly tiny circuitry and what might have been a tiny, tightly folded leg.

"All right, so they're Disposables. That's even worse. They're still loaded with viruses, probably, plus you have to feed them."

Brainstorm wasn't listening. He hugged the box to his chest with one hand, as he fished five shanix out of subspace and dropped it on the table.

"C'mon," Brainstorm said to Chromedome over his shoulder, starting for the door flap. "I want to see if—hey?"

The vendor, having snagged his arm in her long damp fingers, was pulling him back towards the table. Brainstorm jerked his arm free, frowning.

She stabbed her finger forcefully between the box and the shanix, squelching angrily. Brainstorm gooshed heatedly back. She grabbed the box, trying to pull it away from him.

Brainstorm pulled out a gun and shot her.

Chromedome shifted his armful of junk. "Brainstorm—"

Brainstorm threw down the gun, pulled out a second gun, and brandished it as flame spewed out its barrel.

"Never mind," said Chromedome as the tent caught fire.

* * *

Mnemosurgery didn't work on organics. So instead of modifying a few memories and strolling away, Chromedome was forced to flee from the ever-growing inferno and the eyewitnesses it was attracting. Gidgets and coils of wire bounced out of his arms as he sprinted after Brainstorm, who was bounding over tables and shoving past aliens.

"I think we did it," Brainstorm panted, slowing to a trot as they approached the ship.

"If by 'did it' you mean burned down the bazaar, then yeah."

"That could have been anyone."

Chromedome didn't deign to refute this. He was tired. "Here." He shoved the crystals and other junk into Brainstorm's arms.

Brainstorm sandwiched the items between his arms, the dataslug box on top. "Hey, where are you going?"

"Bed."

"But it's the middle of the day."

"We're in space, it's always the middle of the day somewhere." He turned down the corridor towards his hab-suite.

"But I can't complete my experiment without you!" Brainstorm called.

Chromedome was motivated to walk faster.

* * *

He palmed open the door to his quarters . . . and froze. There was Prowl, lounging on his berth with fingers cupping the stem of an elegantly tapered glass. His black and gold plating gleamed under the shimmer of the high grade in his hand.

Chromedome considered returning to the bazaar and throwing himself into the fire but it was too late. Prowl's red optics brightened at the sight of him and a smirk curled his lips.

"Well, _hello,_ Chromey," Prowl cooed. Even his romantic overtures sounded threatening, like it was a precursor to snapping off a few fingers. Maybe he was into that.

"Hi . . . Prowlie," Chromedome said. Had he ever called him that? "So . . . so I haven't seen you in, wow, a vorn and a half? What brings you here?"

"Oh, you know. Business . . ." Prowl sat up and leaned forward as the gauzy sheet . . . had he brought it _with_ him? . . . that he'd draped over himself slid away to bunch at his hips. "And _pleasure._ I've been waiting for you."

"Yeah, I can see that . . . How long are you gonna be on the ship?"

"A while." Prowl scooted to the side and patted the place beside him on the berth. "I might transfer here permanently."

 _Oh my god._ "I can't wait." Chromedome sat beside him. One arm gingerly encircled the interrogation expert while he hid the other behind his thigh, letting the long, tapering needles spiral from his fingertips. "Hey babe, could you pour me some of that fancy energon?"

"Of course."

As soon as Prowl leaned over, Chromedome lunged.

* * *

"I'm here to help with your stupid experiment."

"It's not stupid," Brainstorm said, looking up from the microscope he'd been peering through. "But also, yessss."

"Please stop rubbing your hands together like that," Chromedome said. "It's creepy."

"Creepy like your _lover boy."_

"Don't. Even. Start." Chromedome had just carried Prowl back to his own room and no less than three bots had caught him in the act. He'd wiped the incident from their minds, but it had only worsened the throbbing in his helm and the general disarray of his emotional subsystems. After the third one, he'd actually fragging _cried,_ like some soppy Decepticon. The Prowl memories, spilling from their unlocked partition, resisted his attempts to shove the tangle back in their box. "So what do you need help with?"

"The nuclear empirical rifle!"

"Let me rephrase. What _specifically_ do you need help with?"

"Two things!" Brainstorm scuttled to the end of the lab, returning with blueprints which he unfurled across the table. "First, I need you to make bullets that can read people's minds."

"That's physically impossible."

"Second," Brainstorm brandished a little blue dataslug, "I need you to determine if these are good or evil."

"What?"

"Good or evil," Brainstorm repeated, like that explained anything.

Chromedome didn't want to delve into anyone's mind right now. Not with the taste of his and Prowl's first kiss on his lips . . . the ghost of his fingers on his helm fins . . . the freshened memory of cold nights spent curled away from each other, separated by a distance far beyond limits of the bed where they seethed, not _together,_ but concurrently . . .

"Let's do the bullet thing first."

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

Brainstorm wanted his invention to shoot a low impact mini-bullet, which was the precursor to the victim being shot with a laser.

"Why don't you just shoot them with a regular bullet?" Chromedome was running his hands through the box of datasticks. Their plasticy casing was smooth to the touch (though often scuffed or cracked) and they made a pleasant clatter. "Shoot 'em dead."

"There'd be no target for the laser if they were already dead, now would there, Mr. Smart Aft? Besides, it looks great. Check this out." Brainstorm fired purple laserblasts at the end of the lab, breaking a few beakers.

"Wow." Chromedome watched some kind of green ooze trickle out of the broken glass, dangerously close to the cords of the squat mainframe at the end of the room.

"And that's not all!" He shot again, this time producing red blasts.

"Is that all it does? Shoot rainbow colors?"

"Not rainbow. Only purple or red."

"Oh." Chromedome looked down at the dataslugs. "Why aren't these things transforming? Are they dead?"

"Nah." Brainstorm leaned over. "See that silver disc thing? It's a dampner; their itty bitty bodies can't transform when they're in range of it."

"Huh."

"So you ready to do this? Those bullets aren't gonna build themselves!"

* * *

It took a painfully long time to convince Brainstorm that a bullet could not replicate the sophisticated capabilities of a mnemosurgeon, whose very frame and processor were optimized for accessing and editing memories. _Maybe_ a bullet with a very thin, long, sharp tip (which was to say a dart) could pierce a bot's outer plating, jab into the internal circuitry, trace said circuitry to the inner processor, and _maybe_ isolate one single, simple, binary thought from the victim's mind.

"Yeah, if they're good or evil," Brainstorm said. "That's binary."

"No, it's not, but even if it were it's not simple!" Chromedome could no longer tell if his processor ache was due to performing four mnemosurgeries in a single day (one of which had involved implanting a hastily constructed memory of an imaginary date) or because of Brainstorm being Brainstorm. "Pick something else! Do they like energon gels, yes or no! Have they ever had a rust infection, yes or no!"

"Okay, okay, sheesh."

* * *

Chromedome's headache gradually receded over the three hours it took to perfect the "mind-meld bullets" which were actually darts. As Brainstorm fitted the tiny microcircuitry into the slim golden casings with a tweezer, Chromedome had an opportunity to banish all his least favorite Prowl memories (which was to say: all his Prowl memories) until all that remained was impersonal everyday knowledge about the interrogator and a fuzzy but certain conviction that Prowl was an ex to be avoided.

"Done!" Brainstorm announced with satisfaction, leaning back in his chair. He proudly held a dart between his thumb and forefinger, a slim gold projectile with a silky multi-colored tassel.

"What's that do?" Chromedome flipped the end of the tassel.

"It just adds some pizzazz."

"That's what I thought. So what binary choice did you go with?"

"Whether they'd join the Autobots or Decepticons, given the chance."

"What about neutrals?"

"Uhhh . . ." Brainstorm's brow furrowed.

"Forget I asked."

"You're the expert with that slag, heh heh. Ready to test this baby out?"

"Brainstorm, if you shoot me I'll make you forget everything you've ever known."

"Of course not _you,"_ Brainstorm laughed, picking the dampner out of the box of dataslugs and flicking it across the room.

All hell broke loose.

With a chorus of transformation cogs echoing through the room, at least twenty dataslugs mass-shifted into much larger (though still short) bots. Most of them were screaming and all of them were tumbling and scrambling away from Brainstorm and Chromedome.

"Hey, HEY!" Chromedome yanked one minibot back by the back of its neck and with a sweeping gesture caught another three 'round their waists. One started gnawing his hand. _"Brainstorm!"_

"Hang on!" Brainstorm was loading the nuclear empirical rifle, feverishly slotting the gold bullets into the empty chambers. Swinging the rifle onto his shoulder and lining up a shot, he aimed at the cluster of Disposables rushing towards the door. The _thwip_ of the mind-meld bullet was followed by a red blast. "Good news, that one was evil!"

"I don't care if they're evil!" Chromedome screamed, throwing a flailing minibot at him.

He whipped out his regular non-morality-detecting blaster and started shooting everything that moved. He plugged three, but Brainstorm was doing even better; the plasma from his rifle was hot enough to melt the dataslugs into puddles of liquid metal, and if their compatriots stumbled into their smelted bodies they started melting too.

Even so, a handful of tiny bots managed to get the door open, spilling out in a mad scramble.

Still wielding the nuclear empirical rifle, Brainstorm slid into the hall. "We've got to stop them!"

"No fragging kidding!" Chromedome turned around and blasted two little bots who were crawling under the cabinet. He couldn't see any others. "You go left, I'll go right!"

"Aye aye!" Brainstorm offered a mock salute and sprinted away.

"And stop being so weird!" Chromedome yelled after him. He ran the opposite direction. The clinky-clank of little feet could be heard around the corner. He rounded it in time to see an assortment of miniature bots fleeing down the ship's gangplank. They disappeared into the maze of rusting buildings lining the docks. "Yeah, you'd _better_ run, you little fraggers!"

There was no time to catch his breath. He dashed back down the hall, almost running into Brainstorm.

"Primus! Don't scare me like that!" Brainstorm put a hand to his chest.

"I chased off a bunch. You?"

"I got four and chucked what was left of 'em in an empty hab suite. They were all evil, by the way."

"How many _Disposables_ have you seen in the Autobot army?" Chromedome scoffed, starting down the hall. "Anyway, your stupid gun could be stuck on red for all you know."

That silenced Brainstorm, if only for a moment. "I should have had a control group," he said with regret.

"Worry about it later."

Their quarry was easy to track; it had run through the spilled energon of its compatriots and left tiny, energon-stained footprints. Chromedome and Brainstorm slowed as they reached a corner of a t-junction.

"I think I hear it," Brainstorm whispered.

Chromedome nodded. He too heard little pedes scampering away. "On three." He held up three fingers, folding them down as he counted. "One, two, _three!"_

Surging around the corner, they began shooting. The green dataslug swirled with a terrified squeal.

Neither she nor her pursuers noticed Ultra Magnus striding in from the other branch of the junction. Not until it was too late.

As though reading a memory slowed to half-speed, Chromedome stared in horror as the blast from his gun hit Magnus' chest, exploding into harmless sparks against the thick black and red plating. Chromedome's fingers released the weapon, which spun in its descent.

 _Stop,_ he wanted to scream at Brainstorm, but his vocalizer wouldn't form the word fast enough, not in time to prevent Brainstorm's finger from drawing back the trigger on the nuclear empirical rifle.

Together they watched the golden dart spiral smoothly through the air, its rainbow tassel twirling and twirling, brushing the cheek of the green dataslug ever so gently as the mind-meld bullet slid past and lodged in Ultra Magnus' leg. _Thwip._

Was any component of the nuclear empirical rifle actually nuclear? Chromedome didn't know. He only knew that the sizzling plasma bolt that followed was enough to melt right through Magnus' knee joint.

Chromedome grabbed Brainstorm and pulled him down the hall as Ultra Magnus began his ponderous collapse.

"It was purple," Brainstorm gabbled as they ran. "Chromedome, _it was purple."_

"Shut up!"

"Can you erase his memories?"

 _"Magnus?_ Are you kidding?!"

"Then w-what do we do?"

They stopped; there no longer seemed to be anywhere to run to. Ominous clanking sounds were coming from deeper in the ship, where they'd left the SIC.

At last Chromedome said, "That green one was . . . an Autobot spy. It snuck on board. We ran away to get help."

"Ohhh . . ." Brainstorm's optics lit up. "That could work—if we get rid of the evidence. I'll clear out the ones in the hab suite, you clean up the lab." He ran off.

"I hope Magnus is dumber than he looks," Chromedome mumbled. He burst into the laboratory, prepared to scrape melted dataslugs off the floor.

He was not prepared to find a _live_ dataslug standing on a chair in front of the mainframe, actively downloading from it via a jack.

For a moment they just stared at each other, Chromedome with blank disbelief, the minibot with its hands pressed to its faceplate in an exaggerated (almost cute) expression of horror.

"Die!" Chromedome snarled, reaching into his subspace for his blaster. Empty air met his hand; he'd dropped his gun in the hall. "Primus! This fragging _day!"_ He slapped the control to shut the door and started prying the misshapen puddles of mingled silver metal and bright plastic off the floor. "Don't think you've earned a reprieve, you little gremlin! You're next!"

The dataslug—a red one with a blue visor—flinched back. But it must have been very brave or very stupid, because it stayed at the computer, arms stretching over a keyboard too big for it, its visor flicking constantly between Chromedome and the screen.

Chromedome didn't care just then. He was busy manhandling the minibots he'd shot earlier into the garbage chute; they were just a little too bulky to make the task easy. He was trying to untangle their limbs to ease their descent when he heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

Heavy footsteps with a heavy limp.

 _"Frag."_ He punched a stubborn pair of legs down and whirled around in time to see the red dataslug edging towards the door. "Don't you _dare_!"

The dataslug broke into a run.

Chromedome caught a glimpse of something silver by his feet. He jammed the last body down the chute, scooped the dampner off the floor, and threw it. The dataslug yelp as it folded and shrunk; Chromedome grabbed it out of the air and shoved it into his subspace just as the door slid open.

"Ultra Magnus, sir," Chromedome said breathlessly, trying not to stare at Ultra Magnus' skewed leg, although looking up at his scowling face wasn't any more comforting. Chromedome backed away, leaning against the chute and closing it with a thump. "H-how's your day been?"

Ultra Magnus dropped a crumpled ball of green and silver to the ground.

"Exceedingly poor and unexpectedly painful," he said in a way that suggested he was about to share his experience.

* * *

"You know," Brainstorm said, "things could be worse."

Chromedome glared at him from across the garish red and gold cell.

"No, I mean it! We could be tortured, deactivated, smelted down, but instead we're just in the brig! This is practically a vacation."

Chromedome would have turned his back on the scientist if he'd had enough room, but he barely had space to sit on his tiny berth. "The Rodimus Cell is not _a vacation."_

As if to drive the point home, the nozzles set low in the wall suddenly spewed out gusts of flame. Chromedome drew his legs up to his chest, wincing at the heat.

"We are alive though," Brainstorm said timidly.

"Brainstorm?"

"Yeah?"

"If I had the nuclear empirical rifle in my hands right now I would shoot you. And the laser would be _red."_


End file.
